Beth Troy's Blog, page 21

Also Known as Sharing

If I didn’t write about chickens, what did I write about? Despite what I wrote on my Book page, I’m not trying to be coy. It’s just really, really, really (really, really) scary to share my stuff.

Sharing is a childhood lesson. Share! We’re admonished 88 times a day, but we don’t wanna because every other kid wants what we have, and how do we know we’ll get it back? Intact? Less another’s grubby fingerprints and spit?

Maybe this is why the business world calls it iterating instead – to distance sharing from its tantrum context.

“You need to iterate!” I’ll tell students as they develop their client solution for my creativity class. The entrepreneurial failure rate is high and most start-ups fail because they can’t find their market before the money runs out.

“So Iterate!” I say again. “Don’t develop in the back room and assume your solution solves a problem. Show it to the people who have the problem, get their feedback, and pivot accordingly. Then do it again.”

Iterate & Pivot, Iterate & Pivot … early and often until you get the match and the money to stay open another day.

The students nod, but they don’t wanna. I can see it in their eyes.

“Why? Why won’t you share your stuff?”

“Because it’s scary.”

There you have it – a class full of grown-ups who haven’t grown out of their fear of sharing … because they’ve grown up and understand something our child selves never could.

The real problem with sharing is not that someone will take our stuff and keep it. It’s that they won’t take it at all.

This fear played on repeat when I shared my first chapters with my writing buddy two years ago. What if she never reads it (because it’s crap)? What if she starts reading it but doesn’t finish it (because it’s crap)? What if she finishes it and hates it (because it’s crap)? None of these things happened, but in the agonizing 48 hours it took for her to get back to me (every hour is dog years when you first share your stuff), I was convinced the parentheticals were inevitable. Just like I’m convinced the roller coaster will stop at the top of the hill and I’ll have to climb down, freestyle.

None of the feedback – no matter how extensive – was ever as bad as the sharing hand-off, though I eventually calmed it on down with that, too. By the concluding chapters, my writing buddy could have my stuff for up to 49 hours before I went fetal. But I hadn’t written the book for just her and me. So I iterated again, this time with the whole book to four whole other people, and I gave them two whole weeks to do it (though I meant a weekend and hoped for less). I got their feedback and pivoted. I iterated again – more friends, some family – and pivoted. Then I iterated to an editor. Pivoted. And to another editor. Pivoted.

I share this process with my class, complete with all the dramatic tones so they can step into the agony that is sharing your stuff.

“Sharing is scary because the stakes are high. But what if I hadn’t? What if I’d descended into my basement writing room and scribbled away, emerging a year later to publish my work without ever sharing it with another soul?

“What’s the risk?”

The question silences the room. A few seconds later, a brave student raises her hand.

“A book no one wants to read.”

Bingo. And better to hear that early days, though the last two years of Iterating & Pivoting have shown me the feedback is rarely that binary so much as it’s more of this and less of that. All of the feedback – implemented or not, conflicting or not, nice or not – has made the book better because it’s challenged me to get better at what I do. And all of it has grown me up, which is necessary because each step on the road to publishing has upped the sharing ante, bringing me to the present moment where anyone – not just the people I curate – can read my stuff.

It feels like a free fall, but it’s time. And to stall it by iterating and pivoting just one more time feels like a coward’s maneuver.

Which I’m not.

But I’m still not so brave.

So how about a countdown? Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Friday! Come back here Friday, and I’ll share with you what this book is about.

Where the Chickens Come From

Why do I butcher chickens?

Simple! I butcher chickens because …

No! Why do I butcher chickens?

Ah, the why behind the why. That’s a longer tale, and it goes back to 2009 when Matt and I quit the American Dream and packed up a 26-foot Penske to move in with his parents. Even that truck took some doing. New Life = No Stuff in my mind.

“Let’s get rid of it all!” I’d suggested in a brash moment. Of course I was thinking about the 99.9% of our hand-me-downs staged for the dumpster even before they came to us.

Matt nodded, seemingly in agreement, but then he brought up the 0.1% I’d die on – “And the table?”

Seriously – my family will bury me on my chunky World Market dining room table that somehow looks better the more Troys Boys bust it up (like yesterday, when Tommy was raking his fork across the top with his right hand while using his left to eat his pork). And it’s big. Enter the 26-foot Penske.

To say we were burned is inaccurate; it’s more that we were stupid. Three years prior to The Great Penske Exodus, we’d made another from Muncie, Indiana. We were bored and not living the life on paper we’d always dreamed about, so we packed it all up … for Cleveland! … To go to law school! … To eventually earn some monies! … To live that paper life!

Maybe you see a few holes in our dream plan. Snaps for you, but it took us a few years to clue into how our chosen life owned us. And when we did, we left it as fast we could pack that Penske.

What does this have to do with chickens?

Well. Lost dreams must eventually be replaced with others, right? Enter Matt and Beth’s Homesteading Period. More like Homesteading-Eh Period because I don’t think we ever realized this beyond a couple square-foot gardens, learning how to make bread and beer, and canning some applesauce. Baby steps in our plan to stick it to The Man by going off-the-grid, but you can see why, when folks from our church talked about butchering chickens that coming Saturday, I was there with my Wusthof paring knife, duck boots (to keep chicken guts off my feet), and straw hat (to keep chicken guts out of my hair). Dissecting was the only activity that ever interested me in science class, and I totally sunk into the act of cutting into the chicken, pulling out its innards, separating the breasts from the thighs from the drumsticks from the wings. Bird after bird. It was quite meditative, really. And at the end, I had some chicken to eat (to Matt’s disappointment. Boy wishes I’d learned how to butcher us some cows and hogs).

Fast-forward 8 years to Matt and Beth’s Adult Period. We’ve calmed down. There’s no raised garden bed at this house; we never even tried (because we always quit those gardens in July … right when the peppers and tomatoes for our homemade salsa were coming in). The boys refused to eat any of that applesauce I canned, and we’d rather buy our beer. I still make bread when I have time, which I don’t, but I find time every year to butcher those chickens. One, I own half an interest in a plucker (a modern miracle if you’ve ever plucked chickens by hand). Two, the people I butcher chickens with are the bee’s knees (and legit homesteaders).

And three? I get to laugh at myself. I don’t do it enough, but as I tighten the drawstring on my straw hat and slip on the duck boots still covered with wayward feathers from last year’s Chicken Sesh, I’m laughing about that paper plan, the dining room table that required a Penske, The Man, and the remnants of my failed frontier life … in this case chicken entrails, which make for some interesting scenes in that book I wrote.

Kidding. C’mon girls. That would be grody.

The Other Grandma

Be who you are. Don’t let anyone tell you who that is. You tell them.

That’s the essence of Grandmother Sawyer. My other matriarch, Grandma Barovian, can also be summed up in a conversation – the one she had with me before each dance recital:

If you mess up, I’ll tell you. If you do well, I won’t say anything.

That was Grandma Barovian, that was her version of a pep talk, and she was the reason I didn’t grow up a complete narcissist. She was a tough bird, Grandma B – the eleventh of twelve children born to Polish immigrants in Pennsylvania mining country. She and my grandpap had four children, two born deaf. They raised their family on his factory wage, and to help balance accounts, she waitressed at nights, sewed her kids’ clothes, and cooked their food from scratch. She was a magical cook, and by that, I mean she cooked delicious meals from penny ingredients: stuffed cabbage, spaetzle, pierogies, soup …

She also baked brilliant pies. She knew it, too.

“Lizzy,” she’d tell me, “pie crusts are difficult for any cook. I can do them, of course, but you’ll probably never be able to.”

Fifty percent of my piecrusts do meet the trash, so I can appreciate her story of “The Great Piecrust.” One day, long ago, Grandma made a perfect piecrust: a thin, flaky, buttery, dissolve-on-your tongue piecrust. A Great Piecrust. She laid it bare in the pie dish before leaving the kitchen to tend to another task. Grandpap entered from Stage Left. He was a habitual picker, pinching his pointer finger and thumb to pick a sample of whatever tastiness my grandma was conjuring. He picked a taste of The Great Pie Crust. And then some more … when Grandma spied him from Stage Right. That piece of thin, flaky, buttery piecrust had probably just dissolved on his tongue when Grandma whirled its entirety, glass pie dish and all, at his head. She missed; it hit the wall and shattered next to his feet.

“And you can clean that up!” she shouted before leaving the room.

Grandma Barovian makes for the best stories, so it’s no surprise that when I sat down to write my book, she and Grandmother Sawyer formed the inspirational backbone.

“Did you know what you were going to write about before you started your book?” people have asked. I shake my head. Not really, other than I knew the story would be about a girl and her two grandmas.

“Is the book about you?” people have asked. I shake my head. Not really, other than those grandmas again. It’s not a direct personality or even circumstance match, but the will I wrote into those characters and the tension my main girl feels in asserting herself against their plans for her? That I understood quite well and could write about with enough authenticity to ring true.

The world tries to corner us girls. You strong girls, you go over there. Smart girls, stay here. Quiet girls, your people are to the left, and pretty girls are on the right. We either work or stay at home, right? Quiet vs. loud, submissive vs. strong-willed, soft vs. strong, selfless vs. selfish. My matriarchs blew these dichotomies apart. They weren’t tidy enough to be reigned into one category, which is why I can’t take the Myers-Briggs personality test to save my life. The last time I tried, I quit halfway, flipped to the back, and chose 5 different personality types that describe me on most days. Grandmother Sawyer would have applauded; Grandma Barovian would have rolled her eyes.

My book is filled with female characters like this, and I’ve set a release date for it: June 28! Nostalgic Me hates that my grandmas aren’t around to see it, but then Real Me remembers how they’d go about it. Grandmother Sawyer would flip through it, pronounce it lovely, and never get around to reading it. Grandma Barovian would read it in one sitting, and then tell me everything I did wrong. Neither would agree with its premise – that God exists – but they’d appreciate I took a stand. Because much as they might have liked me to think like them, they really raised me to think for myself – to talk straight, stand up for myself, own the consequences of my actions, and do a job right. What was never allowed was self-pity, excuses, quitting …

And calling boys. That made it into the book, too.

Grandmother Sawyer

On the day my grandmother died, it was her half-finished foundation bottles that caught me. I hadn’t paused since I got the call she’d died, but went about the rest of the day with robotic efficiency. I wrapped up the meeting I was in, made arrangements for the kids, headed to her apartment, said my goodbyes, and started clearing it out after they took away her body. I worked my way through her living room and bedroom, parsing items for family, donation, and trash – family pictures, beautiful clothes, antique jewelry, but it was the foundation bottles …

My grandparents lived in Florida in the winter and Maine in the summer, and they stopped at my childhood home en route. Her turquoise cosmetic bag occupied prime real estate on our bathroom counter, and I was sort of fascinated with it – those spiky curlers she’d set her hair with, her perfume, the Maalox, and of course, the foundation. Bottles and bottles of it, none of them finished enough to throw away, but low enough to warrant another purchase – or 2 or 3. Why keep track when you can just pick up another bottle when you go to the drug store?

That was Grandmother. So was the turquoise of her cosmetic bag. It was her color, she’d say, which is why she wore it all the time. “Doesn’t turquoise look nice on me?” she’d ask. I’d nod yes. She was my grandmother, and I loved her. Any color looked nice on her so far as I was concerned. And she’d say the same about me. I was her granddaughter, and she loved me. Any color looked nice on me so far as she was concerned.

Whoever is in charge sets the tone. Grandmother was that lady for my mother’s side of the family. And the tone she set? Be who you are. Don’t let anyone tell you who that is. You tell them – without apology or excuse. Be who you are. Appreciate it. Protect it.

Growing up, her encouragement and support were my normal. She raised my mom with the same words, and between them, my home – my world – was a place where any color was my color. It wasn’t until much later I realized the rest of the world didn’t agree and chinked away at who I was before I could think to protect myself.

But then Grandmother would come to town twice a year with her turquoise cosmetic bag and half-finished foundation bottles and build up what I’d let others tear down. You listen to me, she’d say. You have my eyes. Don’t ever let other people tell you hazel eyes aren’t special. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I know what I’m talking about. We have the best eyes.

The morning after she died I stopped operating like a robot and finally cried. Grandmother was gone. Gone. Yes, I had the memories, the words – and her eyes – but frankly, I’d rather have the person. I’d rather have my grandmother back.

My oldest son, Jesse, came home sad the other day because the kids at school were making fun of him.

“It’s because of my curly hair. I wish it was straight.”

He’s 9 and has a lot of world to live. I can’t stop him from stepping out my door – I wouldn’t want to – but in my house? I’m gonna pull rank. I remembered my grandmother’s words. It has been a long time since I needed them, but they were never meant to end with me. Her words – her love, her support – are her legacy that’s lived out now through her son, daughter, and five granddaughters. It’s a family investment.

I channeled it as I looked into my son’s clear blue eyes that are very much his own. I channeled her as I put my hands on his shoulders.

You listen to me. You have my hair. Don’t ever let other people tell you curly hair isn’t special. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I know what I’m talking about. We have the best hair.

Whoever is in charge sets the tone.

How the Sausage Got Made

Greetings from Comma Land!

Actually, I’m just back from Comma Land, otherwise known as the line edit of my book where I’ve spent the last couple weeks answering important questions, like: Do you need to “glance over” when you can just “glance?” What else do you shrug if not “shoulders?” Just why did I use the word “just” 30 times/chapter? And guess what! I have pet phrases, like “and so.” If I don’t take care of them swiftly and completely, readers might throw my book into a wood chipper. And those adverbs in my previous sentence? They also need to go because adverbs are the cockroaches of manuscripts.

Aren’t you glad I haven’t blogged for a bit, given what’s on my mind? My book is in its sixth draft, and it’s a comma game. A word extermination game. It now reads 8,000 words leaner than a month ago, and I’m still one copy edit away from publishing.

But it didn’t start that way. I wrote my book in three phases: 7 years ago (7 chapters), Fall 2015 (5 chapters), and January-May 2016 (27 chapters). Notice the leap in output in that last period? Let’s talk about it.

I have two strengths as a writer: my ad libs and my editing. I’m probably a better editor than writer – or least I’m more comfortable with it. Puzzling sentences has been my longest standing profession. I’ve become proficient, but in my first two iterations of book writing, this second strength elbowed out the first because I couldn’t worry about correct sentence structure and quite.get.those.sentences.out.

Enter divergence. It’s not just a brainstorming game to get things started; it’s a technique to get things moving. Editing doesn’t let words happen; it judges and erases the bulk of them somewhere between the mind and the page. This results in a lot of empty page, which is very, very scary for a writer. Very scary. To fill up the page, I had to let myself write. Just write. Which seems like a duh, but it took me awhile to figure this out (as you can see from the snail pace of my first two book writing iterations), but once I did, my writing weeks looked something like this:

Saturdays: Diverge and write a shitty first draft, so aptly put by Anne Lamott. She tells it true. My first drafts are absolute shit. They need to be because the goal of Saturday writing is quantity, and in an afternoon, I’d crank out around 10 pages. If there’s anything in the book that makes you laugh or takes you by surprise, I can bet you it happened in a Saturday writing session because all that writing freedom made room for the ad libs to get on down.
Mondays-Fridays: Edit and decide which words stay and which chapter they belong in. On these days, I’d turn the fragments into sentences, put some quotes around the dialogue, clarify who said what, flesh out those descriptions (I hate writing descriptions), and correct details (is my main character 28 or 29? I couldn’t remember on Saturday, and couldn’t break to find out). If there’s anything in the book that resonates with you – that still has you thinking after you’ve closed it – I can bet you it happened in these mid-week editing sessions because of all that revising sharpens those ad libs so they land as I intend.

We have a vision for these things we do – of the form we want them to take and the impact we want them to have. So it’s hard for us to let ourselves start messy. Honestly, sometimes when I’d look over my Saturday writing on a Monday morning, I’d wonder which of the illiterate Troy boys had taken over Mommy’s Word file. Those first drafts read that badly. But not all 10 pages. Somewhere in the midst of the incomplete thoughts, writing errors, notes to future self, and words-just-for-the-heck-of-it, I’d see a thread of … something. Something worth picking away at. And what started as a mess would eventually emerge as a legitimate chapter and another and another.

That’s all. That’s the secret. Writing before editing, which I’m pretty sure they taught in English class if I’d ever stopped chatting long enough with my friends to pay attention. Writing before editing. Messy before neat. And writing steroids.